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Piranesi by Susanna Clarke – Review



My Goodreads rating: 5 of 5 stars


I can’t remember when I last read a book that I devoured so avidly – especially a book that’s not a genre thriller or whodunit (at least not in the classical sense). Borrowed from the library, started and finished in the space of a few hours.

It’s a book that mystifies, explains, uplifts and depresses, all at the same time. Told through the eyes of someone who is clearly not in the same world (physically and mentally) as the rest of humanity, it’s obvious that there is something very strange happening.

As “Piranesi” (not his real name) finds out more about his reality, we readers realise that what appeared to be errors in the continuity and credibility of the narration are in fact clues to the situation which we should have picked up, but we are so caught up in the wonder of Piranesi’s world and of his mind that we don’t bother questioning them as deeply as we might.

Not the overpowering tour de force that was Strange and Norrell, but a masterpiece on a far more constrained and miniature scale.

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Posted on by Hugh Ashton

How do I write pastiches?

Pastiches? Homages? Rip-offs? Or simply imitations (“the sincerest form of flattery” according to Oscar Wilde)?
I’ve written quite a few of these, taking on the mantle of four authors in my time: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes), William Hope Hodgson (Carnacki the Ghost-Finder), G.K.Chesterton (Father Brown), and latterly E.F.Benson (Mapp and Lucia). All of these have been well-received.

In these stories, I have always tried to maintain the style of the original authors as far as possible. This is more than a matter of recycling stock phrases (“You know my methods, Watson”, “tarsome”, etc.). Each of these authors has an individual style, even though in many cases their periods of activity overlapped with each other – there is much more to this pastiche business than simply copying the mannerisms of a bygone age’s language.

“After the initial chalk circle and pentacle, strengthened with garlic, the Electric Pentacle was obviously the first line of my defences to be established, and I welcomed the glow from its wards once I had assembled it. I performed the the Second Sign of the Saaamaaa Ritual at each vertex, though if matters were as I suspected, and that the beings reportedly described in the lost Heptatrych of Laskaria were involved, the Ritual would have little or no effect. My faith lay in the Pentacle, along with the linen-wrapped bread placed in the ‘Points’ and the water placed in the ‘Vales’, and I determined to spend the night inside that, provided, that is, that there was no clear natural cause for any untoward event.

From my “Carnacki at Bunscombe Abbey”

However well I think I have done with the style, though, when I look back at examples of the originals, I find that I have invariably missed something – at least to my eyes. There is always some element of subtlety that I seem to miss out when writing my pastiches. Even so, the majority of readers seem to think that I have captured the spirit of the originals. I like to think that no one could ever use Monet’s paintings of Rouen Cathedral as architectural blueprints, but they are unmistakably paintings of that particular building, in the same way that my writing is an impression of the writer whose work I am imitating. Incidentally, the hardest style of all to imitate has been Chesterton’s – he loves his little paradoxes and slices of religion to be slipped in. Very difficult to do.

“He is not a Catholic, then?”
She sighed. “He is nothing,” she said. “That is to say, he claims that he cannot prove that God exists, or that He does not. Therefore, he mocks both those with faith, and those who deny faith. Though he is a most efficient and useful addition to the household, and of great assistance in Uncle Archie’s work, I – we – feared that my uncle would give him his notice if he were to continue in this fashion. It upset my uncle considerably.”
“And yet you tell me that you love him?” asked Father Brown kindly.
“I do. I have faith – faith that I can bring him to belief and into the bosom of the Church. I pray every night for him to believe.”
This interesting conversation (interesting, that is, to the young lady at least, since Father Brown had heard that story, or one very similar to it, many times in his time as a priest) was interrupted by the entry of the young man in question.

From my “The Persian Dagger”

Characters are another matter. How far does one take liberties with the character? I like to think (and many critics have agreed with me) that my Holmes and Watson expand on the originals without changing their basic characteristics. I am not, for instance, going to make Holmes and Watson jump into bed with each other, but at the same time, I feel free to make more of the genuine affection that they feel for each other. The same applies to Mapp and Lucia and the inhabitants of Tilling. The characters are loved because of who they are, and any fundamental change to them would make them different people. They may grow and develop, but any outright change to their personalities would turn them into different people. I loved writing Mrs Weston in Riseholme – her streams of consciousness are a delight to write:

“Well, I really don’t know,” she said, after inspecting Georgie’s pieces of glass and invited to guess where he had found them. “I do declare that is just like the handle of a jug that Mr Weston used to have, which he inherited from his aunt, the one who used to live in Hastings and who married the man who invented a new kind of safety-valve to go on railway engines, and which he broke one afternoon after he came in from playing golf with the Vicar. I remember that he went round in 83 strokes, and the Vicar went round in 82, but he said the Vicar had cheated by moving his ball out of a bunker when he thought no one was looking.” She inspected Georgie’s treasure trove a little more closely. “I was just talking about this last week with Colonel Boucher when he was coming out of Rush’s and he had ordered half a pound of currants because Rush said he had no raisins, and why he had no raisins I couldn’t say if you begged me to tell you because he had some two weeks ago and Cook made a very nice pudding out of them. I couldn’t eat it all, and Cook and Elizabeth said they were the best raisins they had ever eaten in a pudding. And the Colonel said he had played golf and lost by one stroke and that put me in mind of that day and it was also the day the German Emperor made a speech about something which annoyed the Prime Minister and that was the very same day that Mr Weston broke the jug.” She paused for breath. “And how you ever got hold of that handle I don’t know, because I remember giving it to Elizabeth to throw away. ‘Wrap it up well,’ I said to her, ‘because someone might cut their hand on it and die of blood-poisoning like old Mr Marlowe who cut his thumb when he was raking the flowerbed in his front garden and he got blood-poisoning and died two– no, three weeks later, and then we’d get the blame.’ So what she did with it, I couldn’t tell you, but I haven’t seen it from that day to this when you showed it to me just now and I really have no idea where you might have found it.”

From my “La Lucia”

And then there are plots and settings. When you are writing a pastiche, you are writing for fans of the originals. If I slip up and put Mr Twistevant behind the counter of the fish-shop, or have Holmes and Watson take the London Underground Victoria Line, I would be rightly laughed out of court. Research and reference to the originals for facts and settings. And plots cannot be too outrageous (though in all the instances I have mentioned, the plots are pretty outrageous to start with) – they must be in scale with the settings of the piece. It is not impossible that the Prince of Wales, for example, sits on Mallards doorstep and smokes a cigarette. It is, however, most unlikely that he would ring dear Liblib’s belly-pelly and ask to be invited in for a cup of tea.

So, the brief answer to “how do I write pastiches” is, “I write stories that the original author didn’t have time to write”. I like to think that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle might well have written:

As a doctor, I am sworn to protect the life of others. As a human being, I am obviously anxious to protect my own life. And as a friend of Sherlock Holmes, I was never more determined to protect his well-being than at that moment. I fired my revolver, and the wretch dropped his weapon, clutching at his arm with a sharp cry.

From my “The Adventure of the Vatican Cameos”
Posted on by Hugh Ashton

A Happy Medium

I vaguely remember writing this some time ago. I think I meant to send it for inclusion in an anthology, but for one reason or another, this never happened. I think it’s a little disturbing and jarring, as it was meant to be. I’d be interested in reading comments (the illustration is AI, generated from the WordPress site).

The young lady who was now seated before me, facing me across the desk in my study, seemed strangely self-possessed. She sat bolt upright in her chair, hands clasped over her brocade reticule, looking me in the eye as she prepared to speak.
“Mr Harrison,I understand that you are the country’s leading expert on matters that may be described as ‘psychic’.”
Flattering indeed, but modesty, coupled with a sense of honesty that has never entirely deserted me, caused me to reply in the following terms. “Miss” (I had remarked the absence of a wedding ring almost as soon as she had entered) “Greenfell, while it is true that I may be numbered amongst those who have devoted their energies to explorations of the uncanny, which some may indeed choose to dub ‘psychic’, I would not lay claim to the position which you have just ascribed to me. Why, either Sir Oliver Lobbs, or Professor Crooker of Cambridge University, or both, have far greater claims to that title.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” was my fair young visitor’s response. “Both of them are far too credulous of the fakes and imposters to be found in the field.”
Since this corresponded with my views on the two individuals in question, I held my peace while nodding, I trusted in a grave and serious fashion, to indicate my agreement with this opinion.
There was a pause of a few seconds, during which a half-smile crept over Miss Greenfell’s face. A face which had, I confess, acquired a certain amount of charm for me in the past minute or so.
“It was you, was it not, who laid to rest the Norbury ‘ghost’? A matter of some muslin and bamboo poles manipulated from the first-floor window by means of a fishing rod?”
I silently acknowledged my part in this matter. It had made me no friends in the popular penny press, whose coverage of the “ghost” had undoubtedly boosted the number of subscribers to their publications.
“And was it not you who discovered the mechanical hammer responsible for the strange knocking sounds to be heard at Madame Likoffsky’s séances, thereby exposing her as a fraud, and leading to her arrest?”
Again, I agreed wordlessly that this was so. The affair of Madame Likoffsky was, in my opinion, a small masterpiece of observation and subsequent deduction. It had to be acknowledged, though, that it had given me little pleasure to see Madame consigned to the dock. She had always struck me as a pleasant and amiable soul, being less grasping and greedy than many of her ilk, though she had been unable to resist taking the large fees paid to her by the Marchioness of Saltburn. It was those fees which had led her son, fearful that his inheritance was to vanish into the maw of Madame Likoffsky, to engage me with a view to taking action against her.
There was another lull in the conversation, during which I had the distinct impression that my general character and probity were being put under the microscope.
“Tell me, Mr Harrison,” she said at length. “Are you a believer in these phenomena? By which I mean, of course, not whether you believe in their occurrence, because of course they occur all too frequently. I ask rather, whether they have a cause that may be as yet unexplained by science.”
I was rather taken by the phrase “as yet” in that last speech of hers. It argued a belief and faith in science to provide the answers to questions, and at the same time, to acknowledge the limitations of our knowledge to date.
“An excellent question,” I answered. “I confess that I have not as yet encountered a phenomenon that could not be explained simply and without reference to the supernatural, even in cases where I have been unable to identify the cause. May I ask whether you are yourself a believer in such causes?”
“That, Mr Harrison, is a difficult question to answer. May I presume on approximately another thirty minutes of your time?”
I was expecting no other callers that afternoon. “Very well. I take it this will be a long story? May I take notes?”
“No notes will be required. I believe you will know the story I am about to relate to you. May I adjust the light in this room?” Without waiting for permission, she stood, crossed to the window, and half-closed the blind. “Now,” reseating herself, “give me your hands,” she requested, holding out her own to me.
This little minx has the audacity to conduct what appears as though it will be a séance with Harold Harrison, in his own study? Well, let her try then.
“I will not expect you to close your eyes,” she laughed, “given that you would almost certainly covertly open them in order to detect my cheating. However, please remain as still as possible.”
With that she closed her own eyes, and within a minute or so she had started to breathe in a pattern that I recognised as one often adopted by so-called mediums.
“Your older brother, Edward, died five years ago in the war in South Africa,” she informed me. “He died of yellow fever.” There seemed to be no attempt to disguise her voice or to assume that she was speaking as a spirit, as other mediums do.
I started a little at this. Though this was perfectly true, and the news of his death in the war was public knowledge, there was no public record of the cause of his death.
“True?” she asked me.
“True,” I acknowledged.
“Your father,” and this was said with a sense of embarrassment, “conducted an affair behind your mother’s back with a woman named Olive Blanchett. You discovered this when you were fourteen years old as the result of reading a letter left in the pocket of your father’s coat which you had borrowed one day. You never mentioned this to anyone, including your father, but kept this knowledge to yourself. It shattered your faith in your father, and you never again regarded him in the same light as you had done previously.”
To say I was shaken was an understatement. Every detail of this was exactly as she had described, including the fact that I had kept this knowledge to myself all these years.
“True?”
Reluctantly, I agreed. “True,” I said.
Another silence. I confess I was sweating. How much did this woman know about me, and how had she come by her knowledge? At length she spoke.
“Your breakfast this morning consisted of porridge, followed by devilled kidneys, and an egg. You sent the first egg back to the kitchen as it had been boiled for too long, and you requested your man Mathews to inform Cook that she could not expect to remain much longer in your employment if she was unable to even boil eggs satisfactorily.”
Though far less of an emotional memory than the previous revelation regarding my father, again, this was an exact account of my having broken my fast that very morning.
“True?”
“True,” I told her.
She opened her eyes. “Now, Mr Harrison, you will tell me how I know these things about you, if you please.” She sat back in her chair, a faint smile playing about her lips. She appeared to be completely unaffected by the trance, if such it was, that had so recently affected her.
“My brother,” I began. “His death was published in the Gazette. There is no secret there. As to the manner of his death, it is conceivable that you are friends or at least are acquainted with some of his former comrades in arms, possibly even the doctor who attended him in his last illness.”
“Very good,” she answered me. I felt like a schoolboy being patronisingly complimented by a schoolmistress.
“Breakfast,” I mused. “You could have talked with Cook or with Mathews before meeting me.”
“Indeed I could have done,” she agreed.
“But the business regarding my father worries me,” I said. “I cannot imagine how you might know this, unless you had been present at the time when I read the letter.”
“I was not,” she assured me.
I spread my hands in a gesture of defeat.
“Then perhaps you have presented me with that rara avis, an event for which no explanation is forthcoming, though there are perfectly adequate explanations for the other two.”
“Indeed they are perfectly adequate,” she said. “But they happen not to be the case,” she added simply.
“Then how..?”
“I am as much in the dark as you,” she confessed. “Let me tell you a little more. For the past few years, I have made it my business, as you have made it yours, to rid the world of these fraudulent mediums who take the money from the credulous. Unlike you,” and here she smiled faintly, “I do not seek publicity for my work, nor do I refer the perpetrators to the authorities, but make it clear that unless they cease their operations, they will suffer for it, without, however, being explicit as to the nature of the suffering. Somehow, this has always been effective.”
In the course of my work, for the past few years, I had noticed that some of those mediums I had been pursuing had suddenly ceased operating without any reason being ascribable. Now, I told myself, the reason was sitting, seemingly very much at ease, and regarding me with a quizzical smile.
“I am sure you have rendered a great service to society through your actions,” I said. “But I am still in the dark as to how..?”
“I was about to come to that point,” she said. “I was talking to one of these mediums – you would never have stooped to concern yourself with Mary Rosenheim, I am sure – she was practicing her craft in a cellar in Shoreditch and her clientele are not of the kind with which I would imagine you associating – but as I was speaking to her, I found myself uttering words about her – and I have no idea from where they came. I was describing children she had borne out of wedlock some twenty years earlier, who were living in Germany. Not only did I know of their existence, I knew their names and the names of their fathers.” She paused. “Poor Mary was convinced I was a witch about to curse her, and abandoned the profession of medium immediately.”
“You really have no idea how you came to know these things?”
“None, I assure you.”
“And has it happened again?”
“Oh yes, several times. And not always with these mediums.”
“And you find yourself telling people about things which by rights you should not know? Just as you did now with me.”
“Always. These range from the trivial, like what you ate for breakfast, through to things like Madame Rosenheim’s children, or your father’s indiscretion.”
“How extraordinary.” And so it was. I had never heard of such a thing. Mental telepathy would explain a sort of reading of the mind, but you would have to assume that the person whose mind was being read would actually be thinking of the event being described. I had completely forgotten about the incident with the egg, and as for the business with my father… I had buried that in a corner of my mind, and though never completely forgotten, I had not consciously remembered it for many years.
“It’s a great gift,” I told her. “It could be used for good, in police-courts and so on to determine guilt or innocence.”
She shook her head. “I fear not. It is unpredictable. It is not everyone whose secret thoughts are open to me. Indeed, it is a very small portion of the population whose minds are open to me in this way.”
“Have you found anything that these people have in common?” I asked her.
“I have.” She appeared to be nervous, biting her lower lip and fidgeting in her chair. “But I have no wish to tell you. It is – shall I say? disturbing.”
“I am not easily disturbed,” I told her. “You may safely tell me.”
“Very well then. Prepare yourself. It is this. Every person whose mind has been opened to me has died within a week of my telling them their thoughts.”
I sat stunned. “Would this include me?”
“I have no reason to believe otherwise.”
“How many?”
“Including you, fifty-three.”
“How did the others die? I mean, did they kill themselves out of shame at your revelations?”
She shook her head. “Not as far as I can tell. Accidents, sudden illness, two were murdered.”
“And I am to be the fifty-third? I fear that your pattern of coincidences will end with me.”
“Oh, I think not.” She rose, and made for the door. “Tell me, Mr Harrison, what is your picture of the personification of Death?”
“A traditional one, I suppose. A hooded skeletal figure, brandishing a scythe.”
She smiled – not the faint smile she had worn earlier, but a death’s-head grin. “Sometimes that has been so, Mr Harrison, but I much prefer this shape since I adopted this body a few years ago.” She opened the door and stepped through it. “Goodbye, Mr Harrison. We shall not meet again.”

Let me know what you think of this, please.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Why the earth is (apparently) flat

A model of flat earth

There’s a disturbing trend in my Facebook feed. I’m seeing more and more posts from those who deny that the earth is spherical, that the sun is 93,000,000 miles away, and that stars exist. NASA, according to these people, is concealing the fact that there is no such thing as “space”, and that the flat disk-like earth, surrounded by an ice wall (which is why no one is apparently allowed to go to Antarctica), is covered by a transparent dome (the “firmament”) on which the local sun, moon, and planets all move.

Gravity does not exist for these people, and is often replaced by “density”, conveniently ignoring the idea that density needs to include gravity as part of its definition. Nor did we ever go to the moon – “it was all CGI” – ignoring the graphics capabilities of computers in the late 1960s. Nor is it really ever explained exactly why NASA (other space agencies may or may not be collaborating with the Americans) has done this and is continuing to produce fake videos of the ISS, etc.

Confused? So are these people. There seem to be as many models for this fictional universe as there are people describing it (I’m not even going to start describing the armed penguins guarding the ice wall that surrounds the flat earth). Like other conspiracy theorists, these beliefs are not based so much on written work, as on YouTube videos made by amateurs who appear to have slept through elementary physics lessons at school. Demands for proof are usually met with “don’t be a brainwashed sheeple – do your own research” (“research” in this case meaning fast-forwarding through YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram videos).

Even after the failure of their own “experiments” to prove their beliefs, these people still refuse to accept that they may possibly be mistaken.

Some of these anti-science claims are being made by obvious trolls – those putting out outrageous “theories” in order to laugh at the gullible fools who believe them. Some are actually outright hustles, taking money from the believers (and doing very well at it). And some may well be the work of foreign state actors, seeking to destabilise our society though the promotion of questioning authority.

Sadly, though, there do appear to be many who actually sincerely believe this nonsense, and these failures of logic and reason would be laughable if they were not so pathetic and disturbing. I’ve been trying to work out some of the motivations and reasons for belief in this system (not all of these apply to all believers in this anti-science nonsense):

  • Desire to be different: Claiming that you have secrets which eluded Newton, Kepler, Einstein, and Hawking makes you special. Like all keepers of secrets from alchemists onwards, these secrets are not for the common herd. Those who have these secrets are a special breed – part of the hermetic elite.
  • Religion – specifically Christian fundamentalism: By reading and misinterpreting the first verses of Genesis, and various other isolated fragments of the Bible, it is possible to derive a cosmology which has a limited correspondence with reality. Many flat-earthers are also creationists. As a PS, I would add that I am a regularly worshipping Christian – I am no atheist or Satanist arguing against religion.
  • Mental illness: Some of these believers, when faced with facts that go against their pet theory, simply resort to personal abuse, insisting that those who believe in scientific methods have been brainwashed and that the flat-earth believers are being continually lied to. They also, through their writing, may exhibit what seem to be further symptoms of persecution mania (I’m not qualified to make psychiatric diagnoses, so take this with a pinch of salt).
  • Ignorance: Especially in the USA, lack of general knowledge and reasoning ability seems to be disturbingly common. Simple arithmetic seems to be outside many people’s skillset, as do elementary logical thought processes, or the ability to consider others’ observations as evidence (“I’ve never seen the curvature of the earth from a high-flying plane, or seen a SpaceX rocket land, so no-one has”). Homeschooling and the lack of exposure to contrary viewpoints may also play a role here.

As I wrote at the start, I find this disturbing. This move towards a distrust in science also reflects a breakdown in trust in authority. I know people who find any three-letter organisation (WHO, IMF, WEF, CIA, FBI, FDA, etc.) to be an agent of “Them”. The identity of “Them” is vague, but currently seems to be the ultra-rich who are aiming to reduce the earth’s population to about 10% of its current size (“the Great Reset”) through chemtrails, Covid vaccines, food monopolies, 5G, etc. The more people who believe in this and associated paranoid theories, the faster our society will disintegrate.

I’ll leave it there. I’m depressing myself.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Bach to the Past

brown booklet in a brown wooden piano close up photography

I’ve been experimenting with creating versions of J.S.Bach’s masterpiece, The Art of Fugue. Since I lack advanced keyboard skills, I download MIDI files and edit them if necessary before playing them through a sound-producing device.

For those who don’t know about MIDI (Musical Instrument Digital Interface), it’s a way of passing information between devices. No sound as such is transmitted, just commands like “Play the note middle C as if the keyboard had been pressed this hard. Now release it.” A common clock signal keeps everything in time, but keeping in tune is up to the instrument.

I have a weakness for analog synthesisers – these are temperamental collections of electronics which produce sound. With a little care and attention, they can even produce music.

So, here is the Contrapunctus 5 from Die Kunst der Fuge, a counterfugue, in which the theme is plain, inverted, diminished and augmented.

There are four voices and each one is played by a different set of electronics, each of which is capable of playing only one note at a time. Because three out of the four units do not possess a store and recall system for the settings that control the sounds, this will never be repeated exactly – there are little changes that can make an enormous difference to the sound (tuning is also a continuing issue as the electronics warm up and stabilise).

Om the plus side, this means that a new recording of this, now that timings and note length etc. have been adjusted, may quite possibly be better next time tound.

All these synths are made by Behringer, who have developed the art of making very adequate copies of classic electronics at a decent affordable price. The voices on this are:

  1. 2600 (the big blue one)
  2. PRO-800 (the bottom black one)
  3. KOBOL expander (the top black one)
  4. CRAVE (the orange one)

Since some of these have slightly less than perfect MIDI implementations, I use a little box to convert MIDI sent over a USB cable into analogue voltages which are fed into the synths’ electronics to control the sounds.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Doddy

The prompt to our writing group was: “Child’s play: Write about a character that finds a toy from their childhood – what memories does it conjure up?”

I think what the author of this prompt would expect many people would write about the discovery of a beloved old teddy bear in the attic or in a box while they were cleaning out their deceased parents’ home, and the memories of happy days playing in the garden. But for some reason, my imagination took a darker turn.

The story basically wrote itself, and when I had finished, I looked back over the nearly 800 words, and thought “That’s actually not bad at all”. There’s quite a lot packed into there, and I could expand it a little, but I chose not to do so – it seemed to me that it would be just padding.

Anyway, for what it’s worth, here’s Doddy (the name is a child’s mangling of “Dolly”). I’ll be interested to know what you make of it.

It had been a long time since Jane had gone up into the attic. She would never have gone if it hadn’t been for her nephew who had wanted to see the photograph of Aunty Jane playing on the wall outside the house where she had lived in Scotland all those years ago.

As she stepped through the trap door and started to hunt through the pile of dusty cardboard boxes for the album containing the photo, her eye was caught by a familiar face. Or, rather, a face that had once been almost as familiar as her own.

Doddy – the once-loved, once-discarded, but never-forgotten companion of her childhood. The one who never pulled her hair or called her names, or who said rude things about her when her back was turned and they pretended she wasn’t listening so they could say whatever they wanted about her.

She’d repeat these back to Doddy when she got home. The words seemed to lose some of their sting when there was someone else to hear them – even if it was just Doddy. Looking at that battered face now, the words came back to her again. Words she hadn’t heard for years now – not since she’d gone to university, taken her degree and her doctorate and climbed the academic ladder to her present position.

And along with the words came a flood of guilt. Doddy’s face was distorted almost beyond recognition, but it wasn’t the result of being loved almost to death, like the teddy bear sitting placidly beside her. As Doddy had absorbed the jealousy and hate passed on to her by Jane, she had in her turn become the victim of Jane’s supressed rage and frustration – not just a metaphorical, but a literal punching-bag. There had been nights when Jane’s fists had been sore, almost bleeding, as the result of the violence inflicted on the defenceless Doddy.

Doddy didn’t deserve that, her forty-five year old self said. You should be ashamed of what you did then.

Oh yes she did deserve it, the eleven-year old Jane replied. She never gave you a word of comfort or contradicted the lies that the other girls spread about you. Quite honestly, you should have burned her years ago. The bin’s too good for her.

While this debate was raging in her head, her body was unconsciously still searching for the photograph to show to her nephew, Alex. The album containing it appeared at the bottom of a box, and she picked it up. As she did, she noticed that she was gripping Doddy tightly in her other hand. She had no recollection of her finger and thumb encircling the doll’s neck in a death grip, strangling the life out of her.

Don’t be so daft, she told herself. Dolls don’t have life. You can’t strangle them.

Oh yes she does, and you can, said her other self.

She made her way down the ladder with the album in one hand and Doddy in the other.

Alex gave the photo a cursory glance, now appearing to be far more interested in Doddy, despite his earlier expressed wish to see the picture.

“Poor thing,” said Alice, her sister-in-law, looking at Doddy. “You must have loved her very much for her to be all out of shape like that. You know what? It would be lovely for our Emily to have her to be loved. Two generations taking care of her.”

“No,” Jane said. Just that. No.

“Oh?”

Jane felt obliged to give an answer. “I think she’s got some sort of mould running all through her, look.” She pointed to an invisible imaginary point on the doll’s torso. “And here. Best thing, sad though it is, is to burn her, to stop it spreading.”

“Can we really burn her, Aunty Jane? Can I help?” Alex asked excitedly.

Jane smiled inwardly. There was obviously some kindred spirit at work here. “Of course, Alex. Come with me.”

In the garden shed there was a bottle of methylated spirit. There was a box of matches that she used to start bonfires. And there was a brazier to hold the bonfires. Within minutes Doddy was an unrecognisable pile of charred rubbish.

She felt free. No longer did she have to wear the role and the academic robes of Professor Dame Jane Silverton CBE of the Department of Neurophysiology at the University of Farnsworth, knighted for her ground-breaking work on the treatment of Alzheimer’s disease, but she could now exist as Jane Silverton. No titles, no honours. Just plain Jane.

She turned away from the funeral pyre towards the house.

“Come on, Alex. Help me make some cheese scones for tea.”

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Why I don‘t rely on Amazon (Pt XXIII)

(Actually the Pt XIII is probably an underestimate)

My latest book is published in three editions: hardback with a dustcover, paperback, and ebook. None of these editions was produced through KDP, and each has my own imprint (j-views Publishing) and ISBN assigned to me.

Why did I do everything through IngramSpark?

Typically in the past I have used IngramSpark (IS) for print editions, using InDesign as my interior formatter, and a mixture of Illustrator and Photoshop for the covers, using the IS templates to position the design elements correctly. Ebooks were a matter of exporting the InDesign text to DOCX format and then running the file through Vellum, a foolproof way of producing good high-quality ebooks from Word files (even if the formatting choices are a bit limited). EPUBs went to Smashwords for most ebooks (Apple, Kobo, etc.) and KDP for Kindle. A number of reasons for the change:

  1. IS has dropped the price of production for print and ebook editions to zero. It was never that expensive to start with, but zero is a nice round figure. Makes accounting simpler as well.
  2. I upgraded my computer recently, allowing me to use the latest version of InDesign. This allows for much better EPUB export, allowing me to use the same file for all editions, and keep the text in sync (InDesign also includes a conditional text feature, which makes it easy to maintain different editions in one file).
  3. Amazon now want an EPUB as the input to create their Kindle files. Need I say that Amazon’s rendering of EPUB files in Kindle is primitive and lags behind others (Apple, Kobo, etc.). This meant going in with Calibre and doing tweaks galore to the rather over-engineered files from InDesign.

The hardcover was a labour of love – I really didn’t expect to sell that many, but it went on sale on 1 October and it’s had a few buyers. I have set the release date for the ebook to 15 October, and for the paperback to 1 November.

And now…

Here’s how Barnes and Noble show it. All well and good. Correct release dates are being shown. Now let’s look at Amazon (US):

Amazon, on the other hand:

  • seems unable to find the front cover for the hardcover edition
  • the Kindle edition is not linked to the printed editions

But of course, in authorcentral, the story is completely different:

All right, I’ll give them 72 hours to try and get things right. But if B&N, who don’t pretend to be a technology company, can manage it, why can’t Amazon?

But when you look at this sort of thing, you have to question Amazon’s ability to compensate authors with the correct amount for their sales. When the two different parts of Amazon are clearly unable to talk to each other, you have to wonder.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Rodney Stone – Arthur Conan Doyle – REVIEW

I was lucky enough to find a first edition (1896) for sale in a shop near here. In pretty good condition, other than a replaced spine. Lots of Sidney Paget illustrations, and a few advertisement pages remaining uncut.

I don’t buy first editions simply because they’re first editions, though – I read them. And so I sat down and read this one – it’s an easy read – and found myself amused in places and annoyed in others.

In many ways, it’s pretty typical Conan Doyle. There’s a rather convoluted plot (some of which I had guessed before the end), a healthy dose of jingoism centred around the Royal Navy (this is set in Nelson’s time, and Nelson himself makes an appearance), and a good deal of technical period slang connected with boxing and “the Fancy”.

The narrator describes himself as merely the “thin and colourless cord” on which his pearls of others’ adventures are strung. There is an undercurrent of homoeroticism in some of the descriptions of the bareknuckle boxers, but then “manly beauty” was very much a thing of Doyle’s age.

Here’s the part where he talks about his sources (love the typeface, by the way). He seems to have been quite a serious researcher when it comes to historical detail (note the Ashton in the sources – not, as far as I am aware, an ancestor).

However, Doyle had a sense of humour. It surfaces occasionally in the Sherlock Holmes adventures, and bubbles its way through the Brigadier Gerard adventures. Here, it comes to the fore in the person of the narrator’s uncle, Sir Charles Tregallis, the leader of London dandyism and foppery.

“You number yourself in an illustrious company by dipping your finger and thumb into it,”said he.

“Indeed, sir ! ” said my father, shortly.

“You are free of my box, as being a relative by marriage. You are free also, nephew, and I pray you to take a pinch. It is the most intimate sign of my good will. Outside ourselves there are four, I think, who have had access to it – the Prince, of course; Mr. Pitt; Monsieur Otto, the French Ambassador; and Lord Hawkesbury. I have sometimes thought that I was premature with Lord Hawkesbury.”

“I am vastly honoured, sir,” said my father, looking suspiciously at his guest from under his shaggy eyebrows, for with that grave face and those twinkling eyes it was hard to know how to take him.

“A woman, sir, has her love to bestow,” said my uncle. “A man has his snuff-box. Neither is to be lightly offered. It is a lapse of taste; nay, more, it is a breach of morals. Only the other day, as I was seated in Watier’s, my box of prime macouba open upon the table beside me, an Irish bishop thrust in his intrusive fingers. ‘Waiter,’ I cried, ‘my box has been soiled ! Remove it ! ‘The man meant no insult, you understand, but that class of people must be · kept in their proper sphere.“

“A bishop ! ” cried my father. “You draw your line very high, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” said my uncle ; ” I wish no better epitaph upon my tombstone.”

Doyle makes this uncle to be a figure of fun, but as a man who is aware of his own ridiculousness, and who is capable of laughing at himself at times, and showing a side of sentimentality, and even commonsense at times.

I won’t claim this is an unjustly neglected masterpiece, but it is definitely an enjoyable light read, and shines a little more light on Sir Arthur.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

I become a conceptual artist

(with a little help from my friends)

It struck me that some of the psychobabble that accompanies much conceptual art would be a prime target for Chat GPT. And so it proved to be:

Write the artist’s explanation for a catalogue of a piece of art consisting of three cucumbers in a flower vase standing on top of a harpsichord and entitled “Sonata in Salad minor”

Within the realms of artistic expression, I sought to explore the captivating interplay between everyday objects and the music that resonates within our souls. “Sonata in Salad Minor” stands as a testament to the fusion of visual and auditory sensations, a symphony of form and sound that invites contemplation and delight.

This enigmatic composition revolves around the humble cucumber, an emblem of freshness and vitality, carefully arranged within a delicate flower vase. The three cucumbers, slender and gracefully curving, evoke a sense of harmony and balance, akin to the three movements of a sonata. They symbolize the interconnectedness of nature’s bounty and the rhythm that orchestrates our existence.

Perched atop a grand harpsichord, an instrument of exquisite craftsmanship, the cucumbers take on an elevated significance. The harpsichord, with its intricate design and rich historical legacy, represents the timeless beauty of music and its ability to transport us to realms beyond the physical.

The juxtaposition of the cucumbers and the harpsichord invites us to explore the dialogue between the visual and the auditory. Each cucumber becomes a note on a sheet of music, resonating with a crisp and refreshing tone, while the harpsichord serves as the conductor, guiding their melodies and harmonies. Through this marriage of organic simplicity and refined elegance, a unique melody unfolds, giving birth to the “Sonata in Salad Minor.”

This composition challenges conventional notions of art, urging the viewer to transcend the boundaries of perception and embrace the subtle connections between the tangible and the intangible. It calls upon us to perceive the world around us as a symphony, where even the most ordinary objects possess the potential for extraordinary beauty.

As you engage with “Sonata in Salad Minor,” immerse yourself in the serenade of the cucumbers, feel the vibrations of their verdant rhythm, and allow the harmonious interplay between visual aesthetics and musicality to weave its enchantment. Experience the transcendence of boundaries, the harmony of disparate elements, and the celebration of life’s inherent symphony that resounds through this unconventional masterpiece. May this visual and auditory duet serve as a reminder that art has no limits, and that even the most unexpected combinations can yield beauty and harmony for those willing to embrace them.

And then I asked, what would the New York Times art critic make of this?

Hugo Lombardis’ ‘Sonata in Salad Minor’: A Harmonious Fusion of Visual and Auditory Delights

In a masterful display of artistic ingenuity, Hugo Lombardis unveils his latest masterpiece, “Sonata in Salad Minor,” a composition that transcends traditional boundaries and beckons viewers into a realm where visual and auditory sensations intertwine. Lombardis’ bold exploration of the ordinary and the extraordinary comes alive in this captivating arrangement of three cucumbers in a flower vase atop a grand harpsichord.

Lombardis’ artistic vision is nothing short of extraordinary, as he skillfully crafts a symphony of form and sound, weaving together the most unlikely elements into a harmonious whole. The three cucumbers, elegantly arranged in the vase, stand as testament to the artist’s ability to infuse simplicity with profound meaning. Their slender curves and vibrant green hues elicit a sense of freshness and vitality, mirroring the organic beauty found in nature’s bounty.

Perched atop the grand harpsichord, an instrument of unparalleled elegance and historical significance, the cucumbers take on a newfound resonance. Lombardis draws upon the inherent musicality of the harpsichord, invoking its rich legacy and the melodies it has birthed throughout the ages. The artist presents the cucumbers as musical notes, evoking a visual symphony that seems to emanate from the strings of the instrument itself.

In “Sonata in Salad Minor,” Lombardis beckons viewers to embrace the dialogue between the visual and the auditory. The cucumbers’ form becomes a melody, their contours dancing across the canvas of the mind, while the harpsichord serves as the conductor, guiding their harmonic progression. The result is a sensory experience that transcends the boundaries of perception, inviting viewers to immerse themselves in the serenade of organic simplicity and refined elegance.

Lombardis’ composition challenges our preconceived notions of art, urging us to embrace the unexpected and find beauty in the most ordinary of objects. Through “Sonata in Salad Minor,” he invites us to reevaluate our understanding of the world and its inherent artistic potential. The piece serves as a reminder that even the most humble ingredients of our lives can be transformed into profound sources of inspiration.

In encountering Lombardis’ work, one cannot help but be captivated by the interplay of colors, textures, and sounds. The “Sonata in Salad Minor” resonates with a quiet intensity, encouraging viewers to contemplate the harmonious balance between simplicity and complexity. It is an invitation to perceive the world as a symphony, where each element possesses the potential to contribute to a greater whole.

Hugo Lombardis’ “Sonata in Salad Minor” stands as a testament to the artist’s unrivaled creativity and his ability to blur the boundaries between art forms. This extraordinary fusion of visual and auditory delights invites us to listen with our eyes and see with our ears, reminding us of the boundless possibilities that exist when we open ourselves to the unexpected. Through this captivating piece, Lombardis reaffirms his place among the most innovative artists of our time, leaving an indelible mark on the art world and inspiring us all to embrace the transformative power of art.

And one more for luck

Write the catalogue entry for a piece of art consisting of a violin stuffed full of popcorn, entitled “Vivace ma non troppo”

Artwork: “Vivace ma non troppo” Artist: Hugo Lombardis

In this intriguing and whimsical composition, Hugo Lombardis presents us with “Vivace ma non troppo,” a thought-provoking piece that merges the familiar elegance of a violin with the unexpected abundance of popcorn. This unconventional creation challenges our perceptions and invites us to explore the interplay between music, texture, and the ephemeral nature of our desires.

At the heart of the artwork lies a beautifully crafted violin, an instrument renowned for its capacity to evoke emotions and transcend boundaries. Yet, instead of the expected strings and bow, the body of the violin is filled to the brim with a cascade of fluffy, white popcorn. The juxtaposition of the classical instrument and the everyday snack captures our attention, urging us to delve deeper into its symbolic meaning.

“Vivace ma non troppo” not only tantalizes the visual senses but also beckons us to consider the audible and tactile dimensions of art. The violin, with its rich history and association with music, embodies the harmonies and melodies that resonate within our souls. In this piece, the popcorn becomes an unconventional orchestra, its individual kernels representing musical notes ready to burst forth in a symphony of sound and texture.

The title, “Vivace ma non troppo,” which translates to “lively but not too much,” further emphasizes the artist’s intention. The juxtaposition of the violin’s classical elegance with the casual nature of popcorn prompts contemplation on the balance between the refined and the mundane. It suggests that, while life may present us with contrasting elements, there is beauty in embracing the unexpected and finding harmony in the most unlikely places.

Through “Vivace ma non troppo,” Lombardis invites viewers to reflect on their own relationship with art and the boundaries they perceive within artistic expression. The piece encourages us to question conventional expectations and to discover new meanings by challenging the limits of our imagination.

By incorporating popcorn into the violin, Lombardis provokes a sensory experience that stimulates multiple facets of our perception. We are encouraged to consider the crackling sound of the popcorn, the soft texture beneath our fingertips, and the unique aroma that pervades the space. This multisensory encounter invites us to embrace the ephemeral nature of art, as the popcorn serves as a reminder of the fleeting moments of delight that can be found in the simplest of experiences.

“Vivace ma non troppo” stands as a testament to Hugo Lombardis’ artistic prowess and innovative approach. Through this captivating composition, the artist challenges the boundaries of traditional art forms and invites us to explore the harmonious coexistence of contrasting elements. As we engage with this thought-provoking piece, we are prompted to consider the symphony of life and the beauty that emerges when we embrace the unexpected.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Johnson at 10 – Seldon & Newell: REVIEW

Quite a monster of a book – I bought it as an ebook, which in fact is probably the best way to read it. The index is well-constructed, and it’s easy to use the search function. There’s a lot in it, and this review concentrates more on Johnson’s character as revealed in the book than on his relationships with other members of his party, with his attitude to Brexit, and the details of his actions and reactions to the Covid pandemic.

I suppose everyone reading this book comes with a preconceived opinion of Johnson. Mine is typical, I suppose, of many, seeing Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson as a lazy narcissist, with sociopathic tendencies. The view expressed in this book, based on interviews and contemporaneous documents, is a little more sympathetic. There’s a lot to read, not only about Johnson, but also about the other big beasts in the Tories, some of whom are still with us, and also about Johnson’s ally, and in many ways, his nemesis, Dominic Cummings, who comes over as more sensible (though just as dislikable as a person) than his Spitting Image caricature.

Though Johnson likes to compare himself to Winston Churchill, Seldon sees him as being much more similar to Lloyd George, likewise a notorious philanderer and populist, who swayed with the prevailing political wind.

From reading the book, it seems that Johnson’s main aim in life is to be liked, together with a disregard for truth that borders on the pathological. Couple that with an almost complete ignorance of the functions and utility of the various aspects of the organisations that help the Prime Minister’s office (civil service, Cabinet, Parliament), and you have a premiership which is destined for disaster.

As a child, Johnson famously wrote that he wanted to be “king of the world”, and that indeed is the way in which he wished to be Prime Minister – as an absolute monarch, ruling by whim, dispensing favours, and building monuments to himself.

His propensity for self-promotion through large projects was noticeable in his Mayoralty of London – the ill-fated ”Garden Bridge” and his island airport schemes, for example. The 2012 Olympics was an exception, but this event rested as much on the hard work done by others as it did on Johnson’s efforts.

As PM, he was largely responsible for the continuation of the over-budget and already obsolete HS2 line (albeit in abbreviated form), as well as the promotion of totally impractical projects such as the Northern Ireland bridge.

Indeed, this obsession with self-promotion led him to believe that the 2019 election result was the result of his own charm and charisma and popularity, ignoring the roles of Nigel Farage, who had paved the way for the Brexit fanatics to take over the steering wheel of the Conservative Party, and Jeremy Corbyn, who had been demonised by the right-wing press as a Marxist monster. Naturally, the image of the jolly, bumbling, tousle-headed Eton toff with a taste for Latin phrases, who nonetheless was “one of us” helped, but Johnson was keen to believe that the victory was his alone.

Since he had no knowledge of how a Cabinet operated, and had no wish to involve others in decision-making at any serious level, his Cabinet appointments, following his purge of the Conservative Party, were a rump of mediocrities and ideologues (sometimes both at the same time, such as Braverman or Rees-Mogg). His ongoing relationship with Gove, who comes over in this book as almost the only surviving Tory with any brains, is complex, and perhaps beyond the scope of this brief review.

And, while Johnson had wide-ranging ideas as to what should be his legacy (reform of social care, etc.), he could not be bothered to think about the details of what these reforms would be, let along how they were to be achieved. In fact, the refusal to examine detail and to comprehend the issues confronting him in any depth runs through his premiership.

His desire to please everyone, together with a disregard for honesty and truth, and a refusal to confront the details of issues, could lead him to give three different answers to the same question on any given day, depending on the questioner, and to deny on the following day that he had given these answers.

It’s hard to imagine almost any other senior politician doing as badly as Johnson when faced with the Covid crises. Seldon does however give him credit for his response to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, which gave him his opportunity to do his Churchill impression on the world stage, and to make relatively simple decisions on black-and-white issues.

Overall, though, the impression that can be taken away from this book is that Johnson should never have become leader of the Conservative Party, still less Prime Minister. His character flaws make him totally unsuitable to hold any public office other than a ceremonial one such as the Mayor of London, where he was able to assemble a team of competent underlings to put his ideas into practice.

After reading this book, it is unbelievable to me that anyone can seriously still support this man as the political leader of the UK.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Why does art seem like a good investment?

It seems that the price for fine art continues to soar, with even relatively minor works by lesser-known names fetching ridiculously (“eye-watering” is the phrase du jour) prices. Buying a work of art now seems like a solid investment for the future – prices can only go up, can’t they?

When it comes to the bigger names in the art world, the prices get even more insane. I’ve just been looking at the catalogue of a Christie’s sale of contemporary art (not that I have any intention of buying any of this, but just to see what’s going on).

There’s a rather nice Hockney chalk drawing dating from the 1970s (I’m not reproducing it here for copyright reasons). It’s 65 x 50 cm – decent size, on good paper. Estimate at £300,000 to £500,000. It’s pleasant, I could certainly live with it on my wall, but not at that price (even if I had that sort of money to spare). But why is it so expensive?

I think that the clue lies in the details of the provenance supplied by the auction house:

M. Knoedler & Co, New York.
Private Collection.
Anon. sale, Sotheby’s New York, 5 May 1987, lot 227A.
Private Collection, Los Angeles.
Private Collection, Los Angeles.
Private Collection, London.
Paul Kasmin Gallery, New York.
Private Collection (acquired from the above in 2017).
Acquired from the above by the present owner.

Every time that the painting changes hands, it will go up in price (not necessarily in value, though, as I try to explain below). One reason is the commission that you pay as a seller, and another is the commission (and taxes) that you pay as a seller. For example, if I were to go mad, and spend £400,000 on this rather nice drawing, the estimated buyer’s premium (according to Christie’s) would be £104,000. That means a cool half-million for this little beauty.

Now, if I fall on hard times and decide that I want to recoup my costs, this thing has got to sell for the same amount (plus seller’s commission). Seller’s and buyer’s commission? Indeed so:

…a single Seller’s Commission rate for the services we provide. The commission is calculated on each item as a fixed percentage based on the eventual hammer price at auction. This rate includes marketing costs and insurance cover (except for Wine sales, where marketing and insurance are charged separately). If your item sells for over the high estimate we agree with you, there will also be an additional 2% Performance Commission fee.

You may also be charged for other external services such as shipping, restoration and framing, but these will be discussed and agreed with you beforehand. VAT (value-added tax) or applicable duties or taxes may be due on such fees based on the jurisdiction of the auction site.

and the poor soul who next falls in love with Hockney’s Celia is going to have to spend considerably more than the £500,000 I spent if I am to recoup my costs.

Does this mean that the Hockney in five years’ time will be worth more than I paid for it? Hardly – what it means is that Christie’s/Sotheby’s/Bonham’s/whoever are doing very nicely, thank you. And when you do this kind of calculation, and couple it to the greed and pride of the art collection world, you can quite understand how a rather small Lucian Freud oil (50 x 70 cm) can attract an estimate of between £3.5m and £5m.

What’s the answer? It would seem that avoiding the big names and the big auction houses is the first step for those of us who enjoy original art but can’t afford these prices (that is, 99% of art lovers). Of course, there are always the museums.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Here’s one I did earlier…

In 2012, I wrote a story for the benefit of a young lad who was going into hospital for a dreaded medical procedure. This was part of an anthology arranged by Jo, the Boss Bean of Inknbeans Press, for the son of one of her authors.

I’d forgotten all about it until now, and I recently discovered and re-read it, actually enjoying it. I’d forgotten the punchline, and it actually made me chuckle.

So… why not let the world have a look at it – for free? Here it is. Enjoy this short SF story.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

“The fretful haggis”

A friend on Facebook put the attached photo and caption on his page, warning us that the haggis should be protected from the unwelcome attention by dogs.

Clearly this is a problem in some parts of Scotland, and probably has been for some time.

With that in mind, I decided that it was time that the haggis be celebrated in verse, so here we go:

The fretful haggis

Behold! the fretful haggis
Treads o'er the bonny braes
A-dreaming of fair haggis maids
Whose beauty always stays.

But if he canna find a mate
All draped aboot wi' neeps.
The haggis digs a wee dark cave
And in there rests and sleeps.

But O! the fretful haggis
Though sheltered, warm and dry.
Has great desire tae grow
Large wings, so he can fly.

Tae fly would be the haggis' dream
Above the peaty bogs
To soar wi' eagles and wi' gulls
And tantalise the dogs.

Alas! the fretful haggis
Will ne'er develop wings.
He'll end up on a dinner plate
With tatties, neeps and things.
Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Why is the earth flat (according to some)?

My take on flat earth and other “science” conspiracies:

These are similar to the “Nigerian bank director” or “Benin government minister” scams, where a badly spelled ungrammatical email message can gather the writer (or his bosses) thousands of pounds/dollars in income.

But how, you ask yourself, are people so stupid as to fall for this? And, strangely enough, though the rate of literacy in some developed countries is shockingly low, the kind of people falling for these scams includes some sophisticated educated people (my wife’s former boss was twice duped by these fraudsters, and was lucky to escape from Nigeria alive with the clothes he stood up in).

But typically, the poor spelling and grammar form a pons asinorum (a test of critical thinking). If you can accept that a government minister or lawyer or bank manager can write a message starting “Calvary greetings my dear!” then you may well accept the idea that he has a few million dollars in cash lying around which he is willing to share with a stranger. And from there, it all starts to go downhill (for the victim).

Flat earth, ice wall, and all the rest of it are so easily disproved, and have been for years. There never really has been a time in history when the educated classes have believed in a flat earth. So if it really is a conspiracy theory put about by the “elite”, then it’s a very long-lasting one. And to what purpose? It’s difficult on the face of it to know why the Illuminati/lizard people/NWO/whoever would want to do this. Of course, there are many on social media who make some sort of living by promoting nutcase theories and dragging others into their net (which may involve subscriptions or other sales).

However, there is one possible reason – by destroying trust in part of easily verifiable science, trust is easily destroyed in other areas. Wouldn’t it seem more plausible if there really was a conspiracy theory?

But the villains I propose are not Dr Evil or Blofeld, or even Bill Gates and the WEF – they are the enemies of free society, to be found in the Russian capital, and their goal is to disrupt the social patterns of the West. They have had two major successes so far – Trumpism and Brexit. I would be interested to know the proportion of flat earthers in Trump supporters vs others, and Leave voters vs others. It does seem to me that funding and supporting these anti-establishment unprovable conspiracies would be an excellent way to destabilise society. Of course, my conspiracy theory, like so many others, is also unprovable. Enjoy.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton